Chapter Twelve
Two weeks later the boat is at sea, and you are running hard north from the Costa Del Sol where the ship spent ten days sending helos into the air, and Marines running ashore in some exercise with the Spanish Marines or some shit like that, and you spent two weeks sitting down in the deck office working on reports and grab-assing with the other petty officers, and you lose the touch you had when you were on the bridge at the wheel listening to the officers and the Skipper shooting the shit about the war and the operation and watching the Marines coming up out of the shelters and across the flight deck and into the back of the helos and the LSOs[105] lifting their arms up together over their heads, and the helos squatting and then sitting back and then lifting off sliding to the side and then tilting forward and off with the LSOs lifting them up and up.
So one night of heavy seas you end up on the signal bridge on top of the whole ship, one deck above the pilothouse on the narrow balcony that leans out over the water with signal lights shrouded in canvas and double-barreled big eye spotting scopes swinging softly in their mounts and you see the ship’s lights are all below you and how they light the bottom halves of the masts and the rigging in yellow and hear the wind humming through the halyards and the signal flags flopping wetly in the mist, and see the stars above shining shone through the ragged scudding clouds like headlights far away on a wet foggy highway.
Below is the black sea quartering the ship from starboard and from the stern, a following sea that the ship can’t outrun and you lean against the rail and watch a large wave, maybe twenty feet, catch up with the ship and lift the stern from right to left, swinging the ship to port, and the ship surfs for a second down the face of the wave, the flight deck and port elevator surging toward the wavetop and the ship groans and shudders as the keel twists deep in her guts.
You’re high above it all and you lean out over the water when the wave goes under the ship and the ship lifts and then gives up the wave forward and you can see the wave cresting past the bow with a brief brilliant white cap before sailing off into the dark, they are long and smooth and the ship leaves no impression at all on their backs.
You hear holy shit and see the black signalman who is pointing astern at an even bigger wave, maybe 25 feet this time, as it comes out of the dark and you watch that wave catch a smaller wave and build itself up on its back, lifting its head now maybe 35 feet, maybe 40 feet above the ocean surface and see it catch the boat off-rhythm and slam flat against the stern like the back of a hand against the back of a head.
The seawater bursts and sudses over the gun tub and splashes down on to the flight deck against a helo but most of the wave passes below, pitching the bow down and lifting the stern so that the screw comes almost all the way out of the water and the old ship shakes hard as the screw turns free for a second in the cold air and you turn to the signalman and say like a dog shitting a peach pit.
Then you both hold on as the stern slowly falls back deep into the sea, smothering the propeller with the bow still down and the ship squats down into the seawater, the water bulging out from under the hull and lifting the wave to run flush with the hangar deck and the hull hums low for a moment, deep in the sea, and then lifts so slowly from the ocean, like a cow stumbling out of a pond, and water drips from stanchions and the catwalks and the gun tubs. And you can smell salt sea and tangy JP5 sharp in your nose and your hair is misted with cool rain and your face is wet and you are awake and aware and clear.
The signalman says not sure we were coming back up that time and his face gleams yellow-black from the running lights and wet from the mist and you can hear soft biscuit Maryland in his voice and you say I seen green water over the bow – that’s sixty-five feet[106] and he says crap. I mean, crap and you smile and brush past him forward and through the blackout curtains into the warm and steamy signal shack where you see Revelard standing and leaning over the chart table, a Sports Illustrated flat on the shiny Plexiglas spotlighted by a small lamp.
Hey retard you say to him where’s your porn library and he says goddam chief came through and shitcanned it all on us…new guy’s some kind of born again and you say no more beating off on the balls to four watch and he says nope…and I really miss it...I really do and Revelard stands up and asks you want coffee and you always want coffee.
So he gets you coffee and you slurp it out of your mug that you always carry with you and its hot and stings your tongue and it tastes really awful good running down into your belly and making you feel warm and Revelard says you are going to have to kick in to the coffee mess if you want to keep drinking up here and you say fuck you and dig around and pull out a pack and shake a cigarette loose at him.
The smoke and the coffee taste good together and you stand there with him in the red night light of the signal shack and you drink your coffee and then Revelard says fuckin’ Navy is going to outlaw smoking I know they are[107] and he squints and you say and it’s so good for you I just can’t understand it and he says after that coffee and then the blackout curtain swirls and the black signalman comes in to the shack, and then it’s too small in there.
Revelard puts his cigarette between his lips and says good to see you young Richardson because it’s time to hoist Hotel and he reaches up into the overhead and pulls down a flag and Richardson says Revelard, it’s dark as shit out there no one’s going to see no flags at night and Revelard says and yet you are going to climb up there and hoist these flags and when the sun comes up in two hours, there it will be, all ready for flight quarters, at the dip, young man.
Revelard Richardson says please and Revelard says that’s SM2 Revelard to you, young man, signalman second class Revelard and he turns to you and says young Richardson does not like to go up on the roof at night to hoist flags and you say I don’t blame his ass it’s dark and wet and slippery as shit up there and didn’t the HTs say there was a crack in the mast…something like that.
Richardson is scared now and Revelard lays a hairy arm along his back and says tell you what, you are going to have to get used to shit like this because you are in the Navy, young man. It don’t make no sense and he stops for a second but it must be done and then he pulls his jacket off a stool and says tell you what, young Richardson, why don’t I go up there with you this one time and teach how to not fall off the boat and you put your smoke out in the butt can and say you got to go and then walk out on the balcony high above the black water and remember some poem from the ninth grade into the valley of death rose the six hundred[108] and you can’t figure out why.
You Are Free Page 12